


Assumptions

by YumeArashi



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Caretaking, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 11:02:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YumeArashi/pseuds/YumeArashi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When someone starts leaving gifts for Desmond, only one conclusion is obvious.  But the obvious answer isn't always the right one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Assumptions

**Author's Note:**

> Set during Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood. Inspired by this kinkmeme prompt: http://forkinsocket.livejournal.com/19860.html?thread=6930836#t6930836

Desmond had always assumed it was Lucy.  The more time Desmond spent in the Animus, the worse he felt for it, but lately little things had started happening that helped him cope.  It started with the sandwiches. 

He was always hungry when the sessions finished, and sandwiches had begun appearing on the table beside Baby, ready and waiting from him.  When he’d asked Rebecca, she’d just grinned and said it was his ‘secret admirer’. 

Not long afterwards, when he started feeling cold all the time, an extra blanket had been left on his bedroll.  A couple of days after he mentioned having trouble getting to sleep, a mug of hot cocoa appeared every evening.  When he commented on how boring their underground lair was, a handheld game system found its way into his pack – games and all.

When Desmond expressed his incredulity that one of the other three was managing all this without ever being spotted, Shaun had looked amused and said, “We _are_ assassins, in case you hadn’t noticed.  We’d be pretty poor specimens if we couldn’t be sneaky every now and again.”

He watched the other three, looking for any telltale sign that might give away his benefactor’s identity, even though he was already confident of who it was.  Rebecca seemed to find the whole thing too amusing to be behind it and Shaun was….well, Shaun.  And Lucy always had that secret little smile whenever he mentioned finding some new gift.

So needless to say, Desmond was very surprised when he finally got to the bottom of it all.  He’d idly said something about missing his days as a bartender and wishing he could taste a decent beer again.  After a bottle appeared (and was greatly enjoyed), he took the empty container to Monteriggioni’s tiny spirits shop.  Yes, the merchant remembered who had requested it – they didn’t get much demand for beer.  No, it wasn’t a blond woman, actually.  It was a man.  A man with spiky hair and glasses, wearing a sweater, yes.  Signor should close his mouth, a moth might fly in.

Stunned, Desmond made his way back, not even hearing Lucy scolding him over the headset for his impromptu excursion. 

Over the next few days, Desmond watched Shaun more carefully than ever, but never did Shaun do or say anything to hint at his secret benevolence.  As ever, he was sharp-tongued, impatient, and generally cranky.

*****

And yet when Desmond woke extra early one morning, it was Shaun in the alcove that served as their kitchen, making sandwiches – the same kind that were waiting by the Animus every time Desmond finished a session.

“Feeling hungry?” he asked, grinning when Shaun spun around, startled.  Desmond could sneak around too, when he wanted.

“Well, what if I am?  Just because I don’t go jumping around rooftops every night doesn’t mean I don’t burn calories too,” Shaun blustered, in vain.  He was caught, and he knew it.

“Why keep it a secret?” Desmond wanted to know.

“Because I have a reputation to maintain, thank you very much,” Shaun grumbled.  “I get enough teasing from Rebecca as it is – ‘cream-puff’ happens to _not_ be my favorite nickname, oddly enough.”

“Then why do it at all?”

Shaun shifted his weight, blushing defiantly, and Desmond realized he was embarrassed.  It was rather an endearing look on the irritable historian, and Desmond understood why Shaun didn’t want this getting around.

“Because it all comes down to you, in the end.  You’re doing all the real work, the rest of us are just cheerleaders for all we can help.  Because you’re always hearing that, always having the weight of the world on your shoulders.  Because however benign Becca might try to make Baby, being in the Animus all day every day is a godawful thing, and we can all see what it’s doing to you.  Because you had your life stolen and now you’re living in a cave, sleeping on hard stone and eating crap food through no choice of your own.  Because you grew up on a damned assassin farm and were being shaped as a killer before you could walk.  Because offering you a scrap of human comfort is the _least_ that any of us should be doing for you.”  It was amazing, Desmond thought, how Shaun could manage to sound sheepish and angry all at once.  And even more amazing, the anger was not at Desmond but for him.

Not once in his life had Desmond ever heard anyone say that what had happened to him was wrong.  Not about the way he was treated on the Farm, not about being captive at Abstergo, not about the way they were living now.  Deep down, some part of him had always felt angry, but it wasn’t until Desmond saw Shaun’s indignation on his behalf that he realized he wasn’t alone in feeling that way.  There were no words for how vast, how profound his relief at the validation. 

And because there were no words, Desmond merely rested a hand on Shaun’s shoulder and said with soft sincerity, “Thanks.”

It wasn’t much, but he could see in Shaun’s face that it was enough.


End file.
